


losing our exits one by one

by abel_runners



Series: poison honey [4]
Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Heavy Angst, Runner Five Is Having A Very Bad Time, Season 6 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 18:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18707170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abel_runners/pseuds/abel_runners
Summary: Things weren't supposed to get this bad. How did you let it get so bad? With the thing lurking, whispering, and waiting inside you, Abel isn't safe. Sam isn't safe. You aren't safe.(Or: the aftermath of S6M13.)





	losing our exits one by one

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to and for season 6. TW for suicidal thoughts. My Five is very much not in a good place here, so do heed the tags.

You’re outside. The air: wet asphalt and rust. There is a blister on your little toe. You don’t remember the last time you ate. The warm bodies and voices around you are a fog of muffled sound. Blurred color.

_Moonchild can’t …_

You drift forward, away from the vine-eaten building. Calves burn and the balls of your feet ache as they push off the cracked road, and you know someone is talking but it doesn’t get through. _She can’t be …_ You clench your jaw until it throbs, trying to pull your mind away from that flickering room; that place you can’t comprehend. Don’t think about it. Focus on getting to the next streetlamp. On the decaying cars. On Maxine’s steady pace just ahead of you and the _Hello Kitty_ trinket dangling from her pack. Pink and white and silver, swaying. Everything is fine. Everything has to be fine.

_She controlled me._

A choking, rope-like pressure presses tight around your throat. The shattered glass on the pavement glints with the low, orange sun. That whole Manor — you must’ve dreamed it: the blotched scans of your brain, Veronica’s incomprehensible words, the way your legs lurched you off the treadmill without your permission.

_She can’t be real._

You’re in front of Abel’s walls, the red of the radio tower blinking against a muddy, deep-blue sky. When … When did you get all the way here? You slow down a little. Then a little more. Then you’re not moving at all. Tom notices first, looking back at you with a crease in his brow. Kytan. Maxine. And then Veronica. And Sam. All eyes on you—you, the animal backed into the corner, white of your eyes bloodshot.

The way her voice tugs and pulls at your muscles, bones and nerve-endings, wrenching your body out the door. An axe gripped in your hands, splinter swollen in your palm. The black smoke. The smell of incense. Ginseng. Burnt hair.

“Five? What’s wrong?”

A calloused hand on your shoulder. And that tugging, pulling force inside you is lurking, waiting, pushing him to the floor, the tread of your sneaker digging into his throat.

“I’m not safe.”

“Safe? What do you mean?” Sam, soft. _God_ , if you hurt him again …

You shift from foot to foot, the blister on your toe stinging. Maxine frowns as she watches you. _Not safe_. Moonchild can’t be real, but those brain scans don’t lie. Veronica wouldn’t lie either. Not about this. _Can’t_ be real. But a thick knot of pain in your head sears as hot as a flare, and your chest is closing in, and some part of you knows – the voice in your head is realer than you want it to be. Than you can stand it to be.

And the Minister wants you—wants the thing inside your head. _You belong to us._ You’re a weak spot for Abel. A ticking time-bomb. A liability.

You take an unsteady step back, heel sinking into the loose, gravelly path. The hand on your shoulder drops.

“Listen. Moonchild …” You take a shaky breath, swallowing through the floss-stuck feeling in your throat. “She controlled me. Earlier. She was the one that got me off the treadmill and out the door. And now that we think she might be the real thing — and the Minister wants her —  I’m _not_ safe to be around. It’s pretty damn obvious I’m not. I need to just ...”

Your thigh muscles tense, eyes darting towards the sprawling distance behind Abel. Okay. What are your options?

Sam, distantly, is speaking: “God, Five, I can’t even imagine how scary that must’ve been for you. Having her control you again …Yeah, that’s some pretty nightmarish stuff.”

You could run for it. Get yourself so far into the woods no one could find you, stumble into a horde and get bitten.

“But – look. We care about you, you know? We’re not going to just leave and make you deal with this on your own.”

You have your gun. Strapped to your thigh. Loaded with three bullets—more than enough.

“It’s not you fault Moonchild decided to rent out your head. You’re still you, even if you have on unwanted passenger along for the ride.”

You could join Eight in the crushing depths of the ocean.

“So come on home, yeah?”

You can’t come home. Not this time; not when you’re just a glued, frayed patchwork of laboratories, bad decisions, and burning ships. Not when she’s real, and waiting, and inside you.

“I can’t.”

“Runner Five. We want you around. Seriously. We’re going to deal with this, and we’re going to deal with it together, okay?” Maxine takes a step closer to you, her eyes soft and crinkled at the corners. But there’s a hard, determined edge in the way she holds her shoulders, and you know she’s not going to take no for an answer. Even if every part of you is aching to run into the big dark and let it take you—let it keep you safe from this, from her, from you.

Your nails dig into your clammy palms. You flick your gaze between Maxine, Tom, Ronnie. Listen to Sam start a sentence and then stop. They’re here. They aren’t going to let you go die in a hole somewhere. You can’t get out of this.

_Moonchild would stop me before I did any real damage, anyway._

The thought leaves an acrid, vinegar-bitter taste in your mouth. _Damn_ her self-preservation instinct. The one time you don’t want it—

“Come on. Let’s get inside. The zoms won’t wait forever.” Tom gives you a look that’s supple at the edges—like he knows—and ushers you forward.

You’re on the comms shack couch, a knitted blanket tucked over your legs. You don’t remember getting here. Sam is hunched in his chair, Maxine and Paula leaning next to you on the couch. Jody is fiddling with the brain scans that are scattered out on the table.

There’s no way out of this.

Your hands. You study the way your fingers curve, the littering of healed gashes and scratches, the redness and cracking on your knuckles from all the cold mornings. Have they always been so marred? So shaky? That purple-yellow bruise on your forearm must’ve come from the mission today, but you don’t remember how you got it. They don’t look like your hands. They are not yours. You share them with _her_.

A glass-shard stabbing in your stomach starts up at the thought of that. The trembling in your hands gets worse.

Paula, talking. To you. “…like Veronica was right. The Moonchild inside you is different—realer—than all the others. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t answer. Stomach still slimy-sick. Head still burning. Chest still closing in and in and in. From the corner of your eye you notice Sam glancing at you, and you can hear him rolling his chair back and forth. “Don’t worry, Five. We’ll figure something out, and we’ll keep you safe from Sigrid and from Moonchild. We aren’t abandoning you now.”

You want to feel some sort of comfort at his words, but inside you there is a steel sheet of nothing. Hands. Not yours. She can take control of them any time she wants. There’s no way out of this. No horde, gun, or ocean. Just you. And her. Forever.

The horrifying idea of that pushes the words out of you, cement-heavy: “All of you. You have to promise me that you’ll shoot me in the head if she takes control again. No matter what. _Promise_ me.”

Sam stills his rolling. Paula goes tense next to you.

“Janine was the one that … ” Jody trails off, fingers picking at the skin of her nails. She looks at the scans and then back at you and breathes out slowly. “Okay. Alright. If that’s what you need, then I promise we’ll stop you if Moonchild takes over.”

Sam chews on his lip but doesn’t say no. “If it comes to that, we won’t let you hurt anyone. Promise.”

“Yeah. Promise.”

“Promise.”

You give them a tight nod and bring your eyes back to the blemished scans on the table. You don’t feel any better.

* * *

You’re in the shower. You convinced everyone that you wouldn’t off yourself — “It’s not like she’ll let me, so stop it with the _looks_ ” — and they went to dinner. You couldn’t go, any hunger you might’ve felt long, long gone. You forget halfway through if you’ve washed your hair or not. You wash it again just in case, the tips of your fingers cold and numb.

You’re outside your block, but Sam is there, leaning on the doorway. How long were you in the shower?

“Hey,” you mumble out as you walk past him, in through the hall and towards your room. He trails after you. You face the bed and start pulling off your shoes and you don’t dare look at him.

“I brought you a scone from dinner if you’re hungry. James put _actual_ blueberries in this time—can you believe that? Gourmet scones.” And there’s Sam’s breathy, shaky laugh from behind you that fades out like the bark of a tired dog. He’s _trying_. You know he is. But you don’t look at him. You kick your shoes to the corner and root around for your hairbrush, your back still turned. Not safe. Might make Moonchild remember she wanted to—

“Five?”

You find your hairbrush. He’s fidgeting at the door. You want to tell him to leave. Get out. Not safe. But words are stuck inside you, and you’re grinding your teeth closer to dullness, and you can’t look.

He’s stepping closer. Your palm throbs with that splinter. You need to tell him to leave. It’s too risky for him to be here. She might remember. She might pull at your bones again. When you finally manage to gather the courage to glance at him, your eyes are red and wet.

“ _Sam_. It’s not safe for you here. She might … She might remember what she wanted to do to you.”

Sam stops his fidgeting, shrinking a little deeper into his hoodie. Like he’s remembering the boot, the axe, the tiled floor too. But he stays. Why is he staying? “You’re sure Moonchild still wants to hurt me? She could’ve done it all these months and she hasn’t, right?”

You bite down into the scar tissue inside your cheek. The light outside is that deepest, muddy blue, and a star twinkles up above. He should go to bed. He shouldn’t be here. “I don’t know. But I won’t risk it. Me staying at Abel is dangerous enough as it is, don’t you think? I mean, who the hell knows what she’s planning? Now that we’ve found out she’s apparently _real,_ at any point, she could just …” You sink down onto the bed, hands gesturing into the empty, empty air.

“As batshit as Moonchild is, I don’t think she’d do anything that reckless. We all said we’d stop her if she tried, and she’d be an idiot to assume that we’re not serious about it. Plus, Five, I trust you. I’ll keep trusting you. No matter what happens.” There is something fragile about his quiet, soft voice that reaches into your chest and runs the tiniest of cracks through it. You shut your eyes for a second, stomach still a mess of ache and jab and tremble. He’s being stupid. Stubborn. Blind.

 _Supportive_.

You sigh, shoulders sagging. “I know. I know. You guys did promise, and I trust that you’ll go through with it if you need to. I just can’t get the feeling of being pulled around by her out of my head. I don’t know. I guess I’m really scared something is going to happen. She’s gonna do something.”

 “Yeah. I’m not saying this whole thing isn’t totally terrible, so if you need space, I get it. God knows I’d struggle with something so—so—well, I can’t even imagine how tough this is for you after everything’s she’s done. All I wanted was to remind you that you aren’t alone in this, you know?”

“I appreciate it. Really.” You give him a wry, shaky smile. The room is shrouded in a murky, dusty darkness. Hands are half-numb. _Still not safe._ The high-pitched hum of the headset. The blood dripping down her chin from the broken nose. “But yeah, a little space might be good. Until I can … I don’t know. Wrap my head around it. Try to convince myself she’s not going to do anything dangerous.”

“Okay. I understand. I’ll be around if you need me, yeah? So will everyone else. Oh—and we have that briefing scheduled tomorrow, but if you want Paula or Jody to step in then I can just let them know.”

 _Shit_. You pinch at the skin between your thumb and ring finger. You forgot about the briefing completely, and you’ll have to look at everyone in the eye at that—when you’re still figuring out if your eyes are still your eyes. “Could you? I don’t know if …”

“Yeah, ‘course. If you need anything else, just come and get me, okay?”

You give him a stiff nod, fingertips digging into your skin until it’s blotched with pink. It’s not safe to be in a room with so many people. Not safe to be around him. Not safe when you still don’t know if your hands are your hands.

Sam’s frowning and he’s tugging at the frayed string on his sleeve as he meets your gaze, but he puts the scone on the dresser, and he leaves the room.

You don’t remember drifting off but you dream of a grocery store and of thick, dripping blood staining the white of the milk cartons; seeping in through your shoes. Her voice tugs bright and insistent at you the whole time. You jolt awake sweaty and sick at three in the morning and you don’t fall back asleep.

You can’t leave your room for breakfast. You keep trying— _c’mon, just act normal, it’s fine—_ hand inching towards the door handle and then falling back, a jagged rock in your throat growing bigger and bigger with every attempt. Not safe. She might be planning something. They’d kill you if she tried or you’d do it yourself, but…

Not safe.

Not safe.

 _Not safe_.

The sun is bright in the sky when someone checks on you. You’ve resigned yourself back into bed, cross-legged and doubled-over on the covers. All your weapons are shoved into a corner and you stare at your hands. Not your hands. At any point …

Dr Myers knocks and asks for you. You straighten, blink the sand out your eyes and feel the hard line of panic rise up into your chest.

“What’s up?” Your voice, strangled.

“Mind if I come in?”

_Yes._

But you’re saying something else: “Not at all. Go for it.”

The door squeaks open. You lurch out of bed and to your feet, you flit to the window and back, and then circle back to your bunk, sinking into it. Maxine has a wrapped sandwich in her hands and dark circles under her eyes.

“How you doing? Missed you at breakfast so I brought you some food.” She glances at the uneaten scone and scowls but she doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks.”

She sets the sandwich on your bedside table and sits down next to you, her weight dipping the mattress. You curl deeper into yourself, arms hugging at knees. You might hurt her, too. Moonchild must hate everyone here, and even though they promised to stop you, how much damage could she do before they did? One swing of a baseball bat or shot of a gun is all it takes.

You keep your mouth shut, shoulders tense as a taut rubber-band. Waiting. Ready. Waiting.

“Sam said you wanted space, but he also said he was worried. Sorry if I’m overstepping, but what happened yesterday was a lot to take in. For anyone.”

Eyes stuck on the crack running through the wood of the window-frame. Those blotched brain scans … It can’t be real. But it is, isn’t it? Because she knows things you don’t, and she can control you, and she always said you and her were different. Special. _More_.

_Revolting._

_I shouldn’t be alive._

_Need to keep them safe. From Moonchild. From Sigrid. Liability—need to go._

_She won’t let me._

“Sorry for not coming to breakfast. I just … Couldn’t.”

“I understand, Five, and I don’t blame you. I think it’s good to be cautious. Especially with Moonchild’s past history.” Her voice is warm as a candle. You blink up at her. She’s agreeing with you? “But—” Oh. “—I don’t think hiding out in here will keep anyone that much safer. As awful as Moonchild is, I don’t think even she would be stupid enough to put her … What should I call it? Her host?” You shrug. “Her host’s friends in danger. Especially friends who promised to stop her at any cost. Point is, we’re not afraid of you. We’re here. If you ever need to talk or want some company.”

The rational part of you—if there’s any of that left—knows Dr Myers is right. Moonchild isn’t that reckless. She’s already prioritized her survival too many times to throw that out the window now. And if she does? You push your own voice deep, deep into the darkest recesses of your brain and direct it, full force, towards her:

_Moonchild. Listen to me. If you even think about hurting anyone here, I will put a bullet through my brain the second I get the chance. You will not survive long if you try anything at all._

You wait—maybe Moonchild heard you. Maxine shifts on the bed at your dead silence. But nothing happens. There is no whisper of acknowledgement or chill down your spine. The voice in your head stays quiet, and that’s somehow worse. Can she hear you? Does she know how much you want to run out into the woods and kill the both of you? What does she even want? What are her plans with you? Questions with no answers wriggle and squirm through your brain, that knot of flare-hot pain starting up right behind your left eye all over again. You stare out at the cracked-open door letting in a speckled stream of light, breathing a little shallower. You can’t get to it.

And there’s nothing to talk about.

You finally break the long stretch of quiet. “Thanks for the food, doc.”

“No problem. You need anything else?”

“Is it alright if I stay here for a little longer? I still don’t feel quite…”

“Of course. I’ll get someone to bring you some dinner if you can’t make it. Maybe hang out with you for a bit. You want your laptop?”

“Yeah.”

She brings you the laptop. Her hand squeezes your shoulder gently, and nothing happens. Moonchild stays silent. Maxine stays safe. But that could change. At any point, she could just …

Dr Myers shuts the door with a soft, worried look.

You spend the day shut in your room, staring at the copies of the brain scans on your laptop until it stops looking like a brain at all. The stomach ache pinches sharp, and you can’t handle more than two bites of the sandwich. You shake and sweat into your sheets. Safer alone. Safer alone. Safer alone.

_But I’m also going to drive myself insane alone._

There is the black smoke pouring off the ocean. The way her voice turns everything into a foggy murk. The keypad. The bloodied hardwood deck. The splinter and the axe. How she’s intertwined with your very brain matter. How the Minister hunts you both. How the floor keeps falling out from under you, over and over and over. A sickening vertigo, a pitch-black tunnel, a dead-end street. And there’s no way out.

Yeah. You’re _definitely_ going to need other people to distract you from the inhuman, impossible thing you’ve turned into.

Later, though. When it’s safer.


End file.
